Dear Lady Gaga,
I know that’s your name, and it’s the customary salutation, but it seems so lame. I’d like to speak to you on a more personal level than just being one of the masses of Little Monsters. Not that they aren’t great. I could have parented any one of them. I’m not that old. 44. I still wear the jeans and punk tshirts I wore in high school and college. I’m not all that interesting. I’m an artist and writer. I do collages and folk art and write poetry that doesn’t rhyme. I perform in small venues when the mood strikes me. I always wanted to be a singer in a band. A punk band.
You are shiny. And I mean that in all caps. Everything about you. Your art, fashion, music. It’s beautiful to me. The whole thing. But especially your music. And your lyrics, child! Gypsy makes me cry, and I don’t get the why of it. And Manicure makes me think fondly of girlfriends passed. You use words that are big. That sounded awkward. You don’t just have the simple, “I touch you, you touch me, I am woman, rarr,” vocabulary. That impresses me.
I’ve never been into pop. Pop culture or music. This is my first foray into it. And I think I’ve started well, though I am deeply in love with the little I know about you. I guess that’s alright, you’re far away and very famous. You likely won’t even get this. But if you do, know that you are shiny. And that is a very good thing.
All Sincerety,
Cydniey Buffers